


The Hunter and the Demon

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby Singer is a Timelord. Crowley? A companion who sold his soul. (Superwholock-AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunter and the Demon

The Hunter stepped through the door of a TARDIS that had been hiding in a scrapyard in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, since before it had even been a scrapyard- since the land had belonged to the Sioux, around the time the the British had settled what would later become the United States. It had changed over the years to fit it’s environment, from the great tree it had been for most of the four centuries, to now a broken down car of indeterminate make and model- if an expert had been able to look at it, they would say it seemed to be an antique, but wasn’t anything they recognized. They wouldn’t be able to look at it however, because it deflected the attention of all who didn’t know exactly what it was. 

A few hours earlier, Bobby Singer had discovered an old fobwatch buried in his basement. Crowley, the demon King of Hell, had come to visit- in search of what, Crowley hadn’t said- he’d been dancing around in meaningless conversation while Bobby was making rocksalt filled bullets. Crowley had been poking around the piles of junk against the walls, when he’d found the watch. 

He’d offered it to Bobby, and when Bobby had opened it, slightly suspicious of the demon’s motives, he’d _remembered_. Remembered being trapped on Earth for four hundred years, being followed by an enemy that could under no circumstances acquire a TARDIS or Timelord DNA. So, his companion at the time, had taken possession of the watch- the trigger of The Hunter’s Chamelean Arch. His companion, a two bit tailor named Fergus MacLeod. 

Slowly, Fergus told the story of how he’d realized that he’d die before getting to return the Chameleon Arch to his Timelord lover, how he’d sold his soul- the only way he knew how to live forever, to spend eternity with his human seeming lover. The pair of them had a lot to catch up on- holed up in the now unfamiliar TARDIS; Fergus sipped his cup of tea, and Bobby, The Hunter sipped his cup of coffee (both laced heavily with whiskey) out of pure habit. 

“I’d really rather you hadn’t sold your soul, Fergus.”

“It’s Crowley now, love.” he answers, not apologetic in the slightest. “It was the only way- when I put you on a boat out to the new world, I didn’t even know where you were going, and I was under surveillance by them for years- when it occured to me that I was getting older, that they weren’t gone, that not even god knew how long it would take me to find you… I sold my soul. No regrets.” 

The Hunter sighed. “I suppose it will be nice; travelling through time with you forever. The Hunter and the Demon, waltzing through the universe, hunting those that should not be.”

Crowley grinned. “And I have skills and powers of my own now- no more protecting the human.”

The Hunter grinned predatorily. “The universe will never know what hit it. And… thank you.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “For?”

“For four centuries of Hell, for the torture you endured to become a demon, the loss of your soul; for being loyal to me for all these years.”

Crowley attempted to brush it off. “Selling my soul was the only way to do it. After that… becoming King of Hell was logical.” He hesitated. “I have changed- I’m not Fergus MacLeod any more. I’m a demon now- King of Hell isn’t a title they hand out to anyone. I’ve tortured and slaughtered in the name of furthering my goals, I’ve enjoyed it all. I’m not as… human as I was when you found me.”

“Then you’ll make a fitting partner for The Hunter, won’t you. My fellow Timelord, The Doctor- we have always shared the same goals, but gone about it in different ways. He heals the galaxy. I rid it of it’s enemies. I don’t know how much Doctor Who you’ve seen- probably all of it if I know you, gathering information on the most powerful players in the game. But,” The Hunter smiles at his companion, and it’s an oddly soft smile on the face of a Timelord Crowley had always remembered as predatory, a warrior. “I am not my brother. I am The Hunter, The Predator- beings in a thousand galaxies fear my name. You, in whatever form, have always been a survivor, pet; now… you’re as much a hunter as I am. What do you say, my darling? Shall we fight, fuck, foxtrot our way through the stars once more?

A fierce smile, showing far too many teeth, took over Crowley’s face. “I’d like that.” he says, then adds “I’m sick of Earth- any where but the Milkyway, at least for a few hundred years.” 

“Until the name of Winchester is long forgotten?” The Hunter has a sly smile on his face, and Crowley grimaced. “I wouldn’t want to leave them without my guidance, at least not without warning.” 

Crowley growled. “A pair of idiots more likely to get themselves killed, damned, or smited, I’ve never met. Even worse than that Londoner who keeps getting into demon business, refuses to admit it’s magic and needs Lestrade to save his ass every few months.” Crowley spat out, contempted for the humans written all over his face. “If idn’t know you liked them I’d have eaten them myself. They think they’re hunters, but no, they’re /heroes/, archetypically speaking. And a disgrace to the word you gave humanity. They’ve survived more on dumb luck and good looks and a lot of quick to perish help than because of any intelligence or skill on their parts. AND they passed their lifetime quota of classic rock songs about the time their daddy died. They’re as codependent as a tandem bicycle, and everything they say is incredibly cheesy. The last time I spoke to them, they said my plans didn’t “jive” with theirs. Jive. With a V. Honestly, it’s like the world stopped in the 1980s.” Crowley was getting visibly worked up. “How they’re still alive is beyond my comprehension. Oh, right, they keep getting brought back to life. When they die, I want to bring them to my finest dungeon, and carve ever single word they’ve ever misused into their skin, little lacerations that will bleed and ruin all that fucking /plaid/. Crowley took a deep breath and brushed imaginary dirt off his suit in an attempt to calm himself down. 

The Hunter laughed. “I take it you’d enjoy killing Bobby Singer off then?”

“God yes. For the pain it would cause them? _Yes_. Then, anywhere but Earth. For a long long time.” 

The Hunter stood, and pressed a kiss to his demon’s lips. “Then, let us plot, my dear.”


End file.
